


a million little times

by prvncess



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Illicit affair, knight!bellamy, princess!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prvncess/pseuds/prvncess
Summary: "As he collapses on top of her, letting go of her hands to wind his arms around her burning body and burying his mouth at the crook of her neck, she tangles her hands in her hair and tries to steady the racing of her heart. The cool night breeze fans their heated bodies. The princess' eyes catch on the sliver of the moon through the billowing curtains, fingers tightening in the soft plush of his curls, and her lips curl into a wry smirk.If the sun could see what the moon saw in the kingdom of Arkadia, it'd be blinded. "...Written fort100 Writers for BLM initiative. Prompt is frombroashwhaton tumblr
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	a million little times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookwormforalways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormforalways/gifts).



> Written for [ t100 Writers for BLM initiative](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/t100_Writers_BLM). Prompt is from [broashwhat](https://broashwhat.tumblr.com/post/189160400326/the-lion-the-beast-the-beat-clarke-is-the-princess) on tumblr.  
> This is for bookwormforalways who kindly donated and requested this amazing prompt by broashwhat for the t100 Writers for BLM initiative run by burninghoneyatdusk. This has been truly a labor of love to write, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have helped such a genuine and honestly impactful initiative. I hope you enjoy this prompt, and if you want to learn more about the initiative, you can read about it [here](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/).
> 
> Title is from the poignant Illicit Affairs by Taylor Swift.

Nestled in the yawning slope of a sprawling mountain range, the kingdom of Arkadia slumbered peacefully under the watchful gaze of the moon. But the thick of the night fog covered the secrets reflected in the moon's eye. 

Like the light breeze that rolled through the restful kingdom, shadows danced in between street lamps, airy and ephemeral, as lovers scurried from house to house. A hand pulls a blushing lady into a house, her skirts disappearing just as the moonlight breaks through the clouds. Yearning promises whispered against flushed skin fly away in the night wind before they can take hold. Desperate eyes strain to make out the silhouette of their lovers in the dark, to make a person out of the shadows. 

Even the palace was no stranger to the seductive cover of the night's gown. In a room flooded with moonlight from the open balcony lay two figures closely intertwined. She gasps as his hand maps the valley of her breasts, his lips marking his descent. He groans as her foot trails the path of his legs, igniting his skin like a freshly lit match. When the knight kisses her swollen mouth, he laps at her mouth, sliding one leg in between hers to glide deliciously against her heat. The princess pants and licks at his teeth, one hand desperately tangled in his soft curls, the other making art out of his back. 

The way the pair writhe against each other, hands blazing, mouths keening, evokes a crescendo. As he enters her, he groans brokenly as she slowly burns him. She keens at the feeling swelling inside of her, grabbing at him to pull him flush against her. When he moves, it's like stoking a fire. The princess feels incandescent when her knight rubs against her from the inside and out, her skin reddening as a hot flush rises in her. He captures her lips in another ravaging kiss, holding her hands above her head with one of his as he cups her jaw with the other. His hand nearly covers her entire neck. The slight hot pressure tips her over into a blinding wave of pleasure with a loud and desperate moan. He grunts and staccatos his hips, bringing her to a flaming height as he follows after her. 

As he collapses on top of her, letting go of her hands to wind his arms around her burning body and burying his mouth at the crook of her neck, she tangles her hands in her hair and tries to steady the racing of her heart. The cool night breeze fans their heated bodies. The princess' eyes catch on the sliver of the moon through the billowing curtains, fingers tightening in the soft plush of his curls, and her lips curl into a wry smirk. 

If the sun could see what the moon saw in the kingdom of Arkadia, it'd be blinded. 

* * *

The sunlight burns against her skin as it filters through her windows. She's pried from the reprieve of her slumber as beads of sweat begin to trickle down her sweaty skin, her heated skin burning where it rubs against the stifling silk of her sheets. When she opens her eyes, she sees her hand sprawled across the left side of her bed, fingers open and waiting. The sheets are rumpled and tossed, her bed empty except for the princess. 

Their affair had begun like a wildfire. 

Just one spark and she was aflame. 

Sir Blake had made a name for himself as the Guard's rising star. A young boy who joined for the meager compensation to put food on his sister's plate, Sir Blake's appetite for his success was healthy. He steadily rose through the ranks, passing the examinations and apprenticeships with hearty colors and firm approval.

He was transferred to her father's court with high recommendations from the Captain of the Guard, Marcus Kane, within two years of his formal knighthood, the youngest knight at only twenty-three years. 

She had heard his praises from her father's mouth when he met Sir Blake. "A fine, sturdy young man with a strong sense of responsibility. He'll do the kingdom proud," her father had sung. She remembered the way her father had glowed at the thought of Sir Blake when she finally met him two years later. 

She had been on her way to the stables for her weekly equestrian lessons when she first laid eyes upon Bellamy Blake. She rounded the corner only to see an armored man, draped in the palace's royal colors, bent over the leg on a beautiful black mare, curly hair slipping from its gelled hold to hang delicately over his face, working on its horseshoe. She could tell his grip on the horse was firm but his ministrations as he worked on the horseshoe were gentle and smooth, like an artisan spinning a pot. The sight of one of the palace knights tenderly caring for on the horses gave her pause. 

"You know, there are stable boys for that," she gently teased.

The man's head shot up, his grip on the horse's leg slipping just enough for it to drop right onto his foot. Her eyes had widened and clasped a hand over her mouth as he swore, stumbling back into the bales of hay, tipping over to land on his back with his legs in the air, pieces of hay flying with the impact. As she gathered her skirts to rush over to him, he groaned and his legs fell to rest on top of the hay. 

She bent down to the side of the hay, peering over at him. "Oh my goodness, are you okay?" At some point, his arm had found its way over his eyes but he raises it to look at her. When his brown eyes met hers, it's as if something falls in her chest like a body from the palace roof. It was then that some part of her knew that this man's soul had been a part of hers all along and that she had spent her entire life trying to find him. It was the way his heady brown eyes seemed to sink into the depths of her body and find all the places she left dark. Looking into his eyes was like she had had her head underwater this entire time, and now she'd finally broken for air. Her body exhaled like it's letting go of something precious, and she felt light. Her next breath felt like her first.

His mouth hung open slightly for a moment before he closes it and cleared his throat, a rather pretty flush blooming across his tanned complexion. He straightened himself up, and she leaned back to give him some space (even though she feels like she's been pulled into his orbit with no hope of leaving). He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "I'm fine, your Majesty." Her heart stuttered, his voice flowed like ambrosia and she was a mortal kneeling at his riverbed. 

She somehow managed a small smile, "That was quite a tumble, Sir . . ."

He had smiled gently at her, tilting his head downwards almost boyishly. "Sir Bellamy Blake, your Majesty," he offered softly. Later that night, as her hands trailed across her flushed chest, she had mouthed his name, intrigued at the way it fits in her mouth. When she thought of his expressive eyes and kind smile as she curled her tongue around the crest of his name, she decided she liked it. She basically sealed her fate right then.

She lowers her eyes, running her hand over the silk, relishing in the heat that seeps into her palm. He had left only recently. For a ghost, he felt warmer than anything living in this castle, her knight who haunted her bed. She turns onto her back, closing her eyes. Clarke runs a hand over the plush of her breasts where it bubbles out of her slip, rubbing the spots where he's left his marks. When her soft fingers graze the wounded flesh, her heartbeat gets tangled with the throb of pleasure at the memory of his mouth. No one had ever made her feel the things he does. He's a musician in the way he plays her strings. When she's with him, she almost believes she's a symphony fit for the opulence of these walls. 

But when sunlight comes, she's reminded that she is just as much a part of the décor as the chandeliers and setees. 

A sigh falls from her lips as she kneads her bruised breast gently, savoring the tug and pull of pleasure and pain that rocks within her. For a moment, she imagines his eyes drinking her in. For a moment, she imagines. 

And then, Harper enters her suite, carrying her dresses for the day, touting about the day's activities, and Clarke lets her hand fall away. For a moment. 

"Your Majesty, please do get out of bed. The morning sun is already climbing, and you're late for your fitting." 

Her fitting. Her wedding dress fitting. 

She's to be married, and it's not to Bellamy, and she doesn't know what to do about that. 

* * *

Her dress is beautiful. As to be expected of any royal wedding dress much less the one which would signify the holy union between her kingdom and its strongest ally, the kingdom of Mecha. Its ornate corset was laced with threads of gold spun in Mecha's finest looms. Gentile pearls cascade down the sweetheart bodice like specks of sun glimmering on the surface of the mountain river that gave Arkadia life. 

That gave the Mounkru life, too. 

Clarke studies her reflection in the mirror and tries not to wear her resentment as her veil. Such beautiful pearls could cause such torment. Arkadia sat at the slope of the Trigeda mountains, and for years her kingdom had enjoyed the protection of the treacherous slopes and the bounty of the forest to their south. But on the other side of the mountain, the ancient kingdom of Mounkru suffered. Nestled in the rocky terrain on the other side of the mountain, Mounkru always struggled with farming. This summer, their struggle turned into famine. 

When her cousin, the estranged Prince John Murphy, strolled back into the kingdom with his restless merchant wife, Emori, they came bearing grim news. 

Mounkru was gathering an army. They were going to march on Arkadia. 

Emori had scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, as she stared down the Queen. "If the king had any foresight worth his stones, he'd find another way but as it is, it seems they're planning on going around the mountains," she spoke frankly. If the disrespect had come from anyone else's mouth, Queen Abby would've had them removed from the throne room. But as it was, Prince John's wife had made her way in the world on her own, excommunicated from her nomadic tribe due to her malformed hand. 

Scorned for something out of her control, exploited for being a woman alone, Emori didn't subscribe to the philosophy of decorum. It was all smoke and mirrors, she said. Clarke was inclined to agree. Quietly. 

Yet, the strange pair were trusted members of the royal family. Prince John, or simply Murphy as he insisted on being called, had always been a bit of the black sheep of the family. The youngest son of Queen Abby's wayward sister, Murphy had always liberally enjoyed the waning expectations from the royal family. His mother had never had any real duty other than to marry well, and it showed in her precocious nature. In turn, the royal family never placed high stock on her or her children. Yet at every turn, Murphy pushed each boundary drawn in the sand, determined to break the glass home that expected nothing but mediocrity from him and every ounce of respect to them. 

When she asked him why he was lazing away in a corner at a ball instead of socializing as any proper royal should do, he had just shrugged and said, "Why should I smile pretty for a lot who only respect that which keeps them in power?"

Clarke figured that there was more honesty in the way John Murphy viewed the world than her tutor's etiquette lessons. And when Clarke met the cunning merchant who Murphy had stolen away with, she was envious at the pair's harmony. She wished to have someone like Emori, who matched Murphy in every way. 

And if she had stolen a look at Sir Blake, standing at his post in the throne room, as Prince John broke the news of his lady to the court, she supposed that meant something rather significant. When his eyes met hers, her heart pulled like a thread through fabric towards him. Yes, she supposed, it meant something quite significant that her heart sought out his. 

But with the news of Mounkru's imminent attack, her wishes were shattered, a casualty of war. Her mother arranged a military alliance with the aggressive kingdom of Mecha within the fortnight, bound by the union of the royal heirs, Princess Clarke and Prince Finn. 

It's not that Prince Finn wasn't lovely. In fact, if she had met him sooner, she may have very well been quite enamored. But by then, Bellamy Blake had already left his mark on her. And as her corset slipped due to the tailor's adjustments, she remembers that the marks are more than just emotional. The sight of the bruised flesh on display ignites an acidic fire in her skin. The thought of anyone seeing Bellamy's marks and knowing that she had been raptured gave her a vindictive joy. She may be another pawn for her mother to move but she still had this much control left. And she chose him. 

Behind her, the tailor swears and yanks the corset up before lacing in the final adjustments, the boning painfully digging trenches into her skin like warfare. She hisses in pain. The tailor's hurried apologies are cut off by a firm knock on the dressing room doors. 

"Enter," Clarke calls. The doors swing open, dragging her heart across the floor when the familiar head of curls appears on the other side. She freezes. In this moment, when her eyes meet Bellamy's in the mirror, she feels infinitely small. It feels like the most egregious lie, the most heinous betrayal. The muscles in her throat tighten like a stone at the base of her chest, and she wants to cry out from the confines of her dress. 

At this moment, she is a dichotomy of power and powerless--a woman covered in the marks of the man she chose wrapped in the wedding dress she's meant to wear for another. Moments before, she had felt power at the sight of her marks; now, it is like the other half has slid into focus, and she feels absolutely powerless, standing in a wedding dress in front of the man she loves, the man she is not marrying. She barely feels human, nothing more than a doll propped on the castle shelves. What a desecration of her stature, of her. 

She sees Bellamy's eyes widen as they take in her visage. She sees the way his Adam's apple bobs. She watches as his eyes shift, his face empty, as he schools his features, the briefest glimpse of his emotions towards her buried alive. He always had the strength between the two of them. 

He speaks slowly, his voice falling like ichor in her despairing blood, "The Queen has requested Your Majesty's presence in the throne room immediately." 

Borrowing some of the strength from his eyes, she steels herself, too. If he can pretend, so can she. She can act as if he's not in her heart, not her whole heart. "Very well. Once I've finished here, I will see her." 

Bellamy shifts uncomfortably. "The Queen was clear that she required your presence immediately."

"I can't very well show up to Her Majesty's throne room in my unfinished wedding dress," she drawls dryly. She imagines it, though, and nearly smiles at the vein that would surely bulge in her mother's neck at the sight. She does glance at Bellamy again through the mirror, and when she sees his discomfort leaking through his careful mask, she makes an impulsive decision. This was her mother's decision, she could witness the destruction it's caused. 

She turns around abruptly, ignoring the tailor's surprised yelp. "But if my mother insisters," she replies with sunny smile and steps down from the dais, gathering her skirts in her hands. She waves off the tailor's startled cries and makes her way to Bellamy, who is looking at her with unhidden affection.

When she reaches him, he says lowly, bowing slightly, "She does insist." 

She smiles softly at him, her heart. "Let's not keep her waiting then." 

* * *

When Bellamy turns into a smaller passageway, decidedly not in the direction of the throne room. Clarke bits back a pleasing smile, the familiar thrush of excitement and lust bubbling underneath her skin. She doesn't say anything in case there's anyone meandering the halls but she follows Bellamy's footsteps like a girl enthralled. 

They're turned into yet another quiet passage, far enough from the hustle of the castle that it fades into a low hum, when Bellamy breaks and turns to her. He has her pushed up against a wall, ensconced in his arms, within seconds. 

She groans as he mouths his way down the column of her neck, her legs widening as his knee slides into the tufts of her gown. There's something wildly hot about Bellamy embracing her in her unfinished wedding gown. "I thought we were not to keep my mother waiting," she gasps as Bellamy nips at a particularly inflamed spot on her neck. 

His hand comes to rest on her hip, slotting her body infinitely closer to his. "It's quite a large castle, Clarke. They should have thought of her Royal Highness' sense of punctuality of when they built it," he teases into her skin, punctuating his syllables with playful and warm swipes of his tongue and flashes of teeth. 

She brings her hands up to tangle in his thick curls, holding him to her breast, and gasps, "I'll remind them to keep that in mind for the next one." But as soon as the words escape from her mouth, she knows they were the wrong ones. She feels the way Bellamy's body stiffens in her arms like she sucked all the life from his veins. Aptly so because her skin nearly vibrates with anxiety at the thought of the upcoming war, her impending nuptials. 

He’s deflated, arms tightening around her and head pillowed in the valley of her breasts, and she's comforted by the warm puffs of air that fan her chest as he breathes shallowly. As her hands tighten in his hair, she closes her eyes and focuses on this feeling--his breath, the weight of his head, the soft tangle of his curls. She's holding her entire world in her arms. 

She's not sure how it happened. At first, it had been wild and explosive passion, like a string in her belly pulling her towards his hands. From the moment she laid eyes on him, some part of her had wanted him all around her, inside of her. And when he had slid home that first night, it had been more beautiful than she had ever imagined. She had felt complete in a way she never had before. And over time, as they learned each other's bodies, their coupling had only grown more intense and erotic. She had been hungry for his skin, his touch. She had wanted to crawl inside of his body and never leave. 

And then, pillow talk started to become more. She found herself spilling secrets and thoughts she never dared to whisper to her amorous knight. Her conflicting feelings on her position, her mother's policies, the role of the monarchy in her kingdom, her powerlessness, her hopes. He, in turn, had spilled his secrets to her, too. His worry for his sister, his fear that everything they have could be taken away from them at the drop of a hat, his need to please, his loneliness, his unease enjoying the benefits of being a guard when his childhood friends still suffered, his hope for more. There was so much love in her knight, squirreled away like a precious treasure. 

And somehow, he felt as drawn to her as she was to him. She found herself making a home in his arms. He was the keeper of her secrets, her mind, her heart. He had become her best friend and her closest confidante and her mirror. He was her everything, and she wanted nothing else in this life but to stay by his side and live it with him. 

But it seems, in this life, all they would get would be stolen moments in dark passages, dark nights. Every time they pull apart, their eyes turn away, their hands stay untouched, their love dies in a million little ways. 

"I don't want you to go," he whispers brokenly. Her throat tightens at the admission and has to push back the tears that threaten to break through. She settles for running her fingers through his hair, focusing on the soft strands, and how they slip through her fingers as he does. 

"I want to stay with you," she admits back, wishing with everything she is worth that she could make it happen. 

But unfortunately, in this world, all that she is worth is not much. 

He pulls back and cups her face with his warm hands, resting his forehead against her head. He holds her gaze firm and desperate, as if he could imprint his image into her heart. As if it wasn't already there. "I love you," he states like he would any given fact. 

Her heart soars as it does every time he says the words. She cannot describe how it ignites her blood to hear that he loves her, he chooses to give his love to her. This wonderful man stands before her and sees all of her and loves her  _ because _ of it. When he says it, she  _ feels _ like she can do anything. She'd do anything she could to fan the flames.

If only that didn't cost her her entire kingdom. 

Instead, all she can do is cover one of his hands with hers and rest the other over his heart. She stares back at him, pleading at him to understand the certainty of what she is about to say. "I am yours, Bellamy. No matter what happens to me, I will always be yours. My soul has been searching for yours my entire life, and now that I know you, I could never love another. Everything I am is yours to hold, Bellamy Blake." 

He chokes back a sob and slants his mouth over hers immediately, heavy and deep. She drowns in his kiss, the slide of his tongue against hers, his lips suckling on hers. She feels like  _ this _ is breathing, and she does not know how she will live without him. 

* * *

They enter the throne room after what seems to have been an eternity. Surely, her mother will comment on their tardiness, and Clarke can't help but remind herself that they had taken painstaking efforts to clean up their appearance. There is no reason for her mother to suspect what had held them up. 

However, when her mother doesn't comment on their delay, barely even glances at them, that should've been the first sign that something was terribly wrong. The throne room has been converted into a pseudo-war room when the servants had pulled a large table to the center for Abby and her generals to pour over maps and war notes at all hours of the day. Her mother is at the table now, her usually pristine hair frazzled and falling out her intricate braids in haggard wisps. Her eyes are grave as she looks up at her only daughter. 

"The scouts we have sent to assess Mounkru's progress have gone missing. There have been reported attacks on the outer villages. They're escalating, and they're close, Clarke. General Kane estimates that they'll be at our doorstep within the month. Clarke, we have to push up the timeline for your nuptials. You'll leave in three days. For the Mecha's army to get here in time, you must be married before the fortnight is over." 

Her mother says everything with pausing, methodical and detached. Clarke's veins fill with ice as she's reminded yet again that she is just another pawn. She can't bring herself to look at Bellamy, who stands still at her side. 

She leaves in three days. She only has three days left. 

Her mother takes her shell-shocked silence as acceptance and sends her away to begin her preparations. Harper materializes out of thin air and whisks her away, out of the throne room. She finds her head long enough to throw a desperate glance at Bellamy, whoever sees be damned. Her eyes meet his, and he looks just as wrecked as she feels. 

This is the end. 

* * *

When he enters her chambers that night, she closes her eyes at the disappointing swell of her heart. She's to be shipped off and married, she cannot have anchors in the water. But when he sits on the edge of her bed, his weight dipping the soft mattress, and his hand reaches for her, the way she falls into his arms feels falling into deep waters. He tangles his hand into her golden curls, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. Even when she's in nothing but a small slip, her body still feels like sacred ground to him. His divine princess. 

When he wraps an arm around the curve of her waist, it's a desperate prayer to keep her in this world with him. As if he holds her tight enough against his mortal frame, he could keep her light in his plane of existence a little longer. 

But like light, she'll slip through his fingers. 

"I didn't think you would come anymore," she whispers into the crook of his neck, the words following the veins of his neck straight to his heart. His poor, foolish heart that always wants things he cannot have. 

He tightens his hold on her. "I couldn't stay away if I tried. The moon couldn't keep me away."

She lets out a dry, sad laugh. It falls from her lips like a man's last breath. "But the sun can." He closes his eyes as pain blossoms in his chest. The truth burns him like a hot brand, reminding him of everything he cannot give her. A partner, a lover, a future. He strokes her hair, his fingers carding through the soft tresses. Comfort is all he has left to leave at her doorstep. 

"Ask me to take you away from here. Demand of me everything you desire. I'm yours, your faithful knight."

"If only I was in the position to make any demands, my dear Bellamy." She arches leisurely into his hands, melting at his ministrations. "But I like the sound of it more than any princess should," she admits quietly. "I like that you're mine above all else."

He begins to leave a path of kisses down her face, his lips pressing worship into her skin. Tonight, they will pretend. Here, they are not who they are outside of these walls. "It seems to me that princesses should always get what they want." 

She sighs as he lifts her into his lap, her legs welcoming his hips into the cradle of her body, wrapping her arms around his neck, and draping herself over him like a sinner on a cross. "I want more than you could stand to offer me."

He mouths at her neck, sucking and licking the lines of her veins, following their sacred path down her body, down his home. He whispers his devotion into the cusp of her neck, "I'll decide what I can give to you, princess."

She moans and wraps her fingers around the horizon of his jaw, dragging his lips up to meet hers. She captures his mouth in a searing kiss, pressing herself as closely as she can get to him as she bites his lip. He groans and opens his maw, and she's relentless as her hand holds him to her, licking wantonly into his mouth. The feel of him, his breath, his body, under her hands is heady. He goes to wrap his arms around her waist, hands pulling her flush against him by the globes of her ass, and every part of her is aflame where it touches his firm, coiled body. 

"Show me," she demands, pausing her siege to breath the words into his mouth, as if feeding them to him, as if she could really hold any power over him. She may adore him but their lives are bound to their kingdom. He may be warming her bed now but she can't even find a way to make him stay. He'll always have to leave. And as he lays her out beneath him, as his mouth and his hands make music out of her body, as he sends her higher and higher, she knows. 

That she never had any power at all.

* * *

She crosses paths with Emori as she's leaving her chambers the next morning, her body pleasantly thrumming with the aftermath of last night's activities. 

Emori pauses, "Clarke," she nods. 

Clarke smiles, "Emori, we didn't get a moment to speak yesterday. I had hoped to speak with you before you and Murphy left." 

Emori's eyes soften, "I am sorry, I know this marriage isn't something you favor. You shouldn't have to be bound to someone for anything less than love." 

Clarke shrugs, "It is my duty. And I wouldn't have pegged you for such a romantic," she teases lightly, hoping to sway the conversation from this dreadful route. 

Emori laughs, "Neither would I. But when it comes to matters of how we live our lives, how could it be anything else? Maybe the idea of romance shouldn't be whimsical when it comes to an agreement of mutual respect and partnership. Maybe it should be expected." 

Clarke's heart twists at the honesty of her words. "Love often isn't a precursor to those."

Emori tilts her head thoughtfully, "What in life is? At least with love, there lies the desire to try."

"I think your time with Murphy has softened you."

Emori smiles softly, "Perhaps." 

They stand in silence, a princess bound to a loveless marriage and an exile free with her lover, for a surprisingly companionable moment. For all their differences, Clarke finds kinship with the way Emori sees the world. She sees a friend in the frank girl. She loves her a little bit for it. 

She clears her throat. "When do you leave?" She asks, changing the subject. 

If Emori notices, she doesn't say. "Tomorrow, Murphy and I are expected in Mounkru by the fortnight." 

Clarke raises an eyebrow, "A fortnight? The trip around takes at least one month."

Emori smirks, "That's why we don't go around." At Clarke's questioning glance, she explains, "There's a set of tunnels through the mountains that a merchant's guild made ages ago." 

Clarke's head spins. "Tunnels through the mountains?" 

Emori hums, "They're small and not properly maintained, so they're victim to frequent cave-ins, but I've been going through the tunnels since I was a kid. They are quite literally child's play to me." her voice is distant though, barely registering to Clarke like errant rays of sunlight on a cloudy day. But like a dazed child, her shocked mind stumbles to grasp onto the implications of Emori's revelations. 

There were tunnels. They could get to Mounkru within a  _ fortnight _ . 

And, suddenly, it's like the sun breaks through and Clarke shoots forward, grabbing Emori by the shoulders tightly. Emori startles as the words escape from Clarke's mouths like prisoners of war, "Could you lead a team through the tunnels? To Mounkru?"

Emori's eyes widen as the gravity of what Clarke is suggesting dawns on her, "Clarke, you couldn't mean--"

Clarke nods vigorously. "Think about it Emori, if we send a compact group of soldiers through the tunnels, they can reach Mounkru before their army reaches Arkadia. The kingdom will be less guarded with the army marching--it's defenseless.  _ We could change the tide of the war before it even begins. _ " 

* * *

It takes a lot of arguing, with her mother, with General Kane, with Bellamy, but before the day is over, everyone agrees that her plan could save them all. They'll send a small team of their best into the mountains, led by Emori and Murphy, to infiltrate Mounkru. They'll move under the cover of the night once they're out of the tunnels, making their way to the castle. Once they're there, they'll need to cripple the castle and its chain of command. They can take Mounkru before Mounkru takes them.

Unfortunately, the plan requires the best that their land has to offer, and the best includes Bellamy. 

They had argued on whether or not he would go or stay with her. He had argued that he would do this for her, to ensure her future and that of their kingdom. She couldn't bear to send him away into the mouth of the lion, to send him to his potential death. 

Eventually, he won. He reminded her of their duty to their people, of them, that their best shot is if he's the one on the front lines fighting to ensure their victory. He had held her face in his hands and reminded her, "Clarke, if it's you that I'm fighting for, there's no chance that I'll fail." 

When faced with the strength of his loyalty, his love, she couldn't find any argument against it. If it was for the people he loved, Bellamy would burn any mountain that stood in his way. It was only a matter of how. 

So she lets go of him. She spends their last night together painting her love into his skin. She has him on his back, wrists tied lightly to her bannisters, but he knows that if he breaks his restraints, she will halt her ministrations. With him spread out beneath her, she makes some of her finest artwork. She buries her love for him in the crook of his neck, maps her trust in him onto the planes of his chest. She gives her heart to him when she takes him into her mouth, her body. When he fills her, she keeps a piece of him to carry with her when he's gone. And when she releases him from his restraints, he's all too eager to leave her with his own farewell. 

The next morning, as she watches the knights ride off in the morning sun, he doesn't look back at her. She doesn't want him to. He needs to stay focused on his journey. 

She's surprised, however, when her mother places her hand on her shoulder. When she turns to look at Abby, she's shocked when her mother says, "He'll come back to you."

Her eyes widen in disbelief,  _ how _ \--

Her mother cuts her a wry glance. "Really Clarke, I'm the Queen. You think I don't know what goes on in my own castle?"

Clarke blushes furiously, but it does not escape her notice that her mother does not reprimand the affair. Could it be? "It's not just an affair," she states, firmly. 

Her mother sighs, "I know, my dear child. It pained me to arrange for your marriage when you are clearly in love with another, but you understand, it was needed for the kingdom." 

Clarke turns away from her mother, focusing on the backs of the knights as they get smaller and smaller in her vision. She knows, she understands her duty acutely. It would have killed Clarke, but the Princess would have done her duty because without the kingdom, there was no reason for Clarke to exist. She existed for her kingdom. But now--

"I'm marrying him when he returns, you know," she decides right there. 

She imagines that her mother must have smiled softly but she doesn't look so she'll never know for sure. "Yes, I'd imagine. It's rather quite fortuitous that we had been preparing for a wedding anyway."

Standing in the morning sun, for once feeling freed under the bright rays to live her life _truly_ , open and honest, she agrees. Yes, quite fortuitous indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to this initiative and to this fandom <3


End file.
